A Night of Southern Comfort by Robin Covington Page B

the nickname. All of her baggage as Michaela fell away when he used that name.
    He placed his right palm flat against the door, bracketing her body with his, the domination sending a thrill up her spine. His face was partly in shadow but she saw enough of his expression to recognize naked desire. He leaned in and she melted against him, his heat cutting the chill from the air.
    “I like you like this,” he breathed.
    “Like what?”
    “Like this. All soft and warm.”
    Damn. This was the sexy, intense lover from the hotel. When he placed his forehead against hers, his warm breath skimming across her skin, she shut her eyes to ward off the memory and the moonlight—an unstoppable combination. If she was going to end this, now was her last chance.
    His voice was little more than a groan of desire. “Kayla.”
    “I like that.”
    “What?” His lips ghosted across her cheek and she shivered. “You like it when I call you Kayla?”
    Hell, yes. Michaela’s answer caught in her throat and died when his lips brushed against her temple. All she had to do was lift her face and take his mouth, the taste of him would fill her senses and soothe the ache building in her belly. Her hands drifted up to burrow underneath his jacket and skim up the warm cotton of his T-shirt. She dug her fingernails in at the sensation of hard muscle flexing underneath her touch, barely registering the muffled groan he buried in her hair.
    This was a really bad idea. She should stop this madness, but the blood pounding through her veins made it impossible to think clearly.
    This was so fucking good.
    That was her last coherent thought before he took her mouth in a heated kiss. She gripped fistfuls of his T-shirt, fighting the urge to rip it off and gain access to the skin underneath. She couldn’t get enough of him, practically climbing up his body in an effort to get closer. Jackson was happy to oblige. He dug his hands in her ass, hauling her closer while demanding her kiss with bruising pressure and nips of his teeth. Jackson didn’t treat her like a china doll—he took what he wanted and she was crazy to give it to him.
    For a month of nights, she’d craved what they’d created together in that hotel room. It was passionate, fun, crazy, wanton, and so fulfilling she wondered how another man would ever live up to the memory. She was relieved to discover that it hadn’t just been a figment of her imagination—they were explosive together.
    Michaela broke off the kiss, sucking in air while he licked, nuzzled, and nipped his way over her throat and down to her collarbone, leaving a trail of moist fire in his wake. Her body temperature spiked when Jackson cupped her breast briefly, tweaking her nipple with his thumb, before edging over to undo the top buttons. The humidity of the night dampened her flesh as he pulled aside her neckline, kissed along the tops of her breasts and into the hollow created by her lingerie.
    Michaela arched into the touch of his lips, encouraging him to take more of what he wanted. God knew she burned for him. All thoughts of resisting her desire were forgotten when he nudged aside the flimsy fabric of her bra and drew her nipple into his mouth. Hot. Wet. Greedy suction. The poignant ache was almost too much to bear.
    “Touch me, Kayla.”
    She moaned. His words, rough and primal, unleashed a deep yearning in her veins. Unable to remain passive in this insanity, she ran a hand down the hard length of his torso, stopping to caress his erection through the rough denim of his jeans. He bucked up into her grip and pinned her hard against the door. Damn, she wanted the clothes gone and his cock driving into her until she could see beyond this fog of lust.
    The calloused palm of Jackson’s hand skimmed under the folds of her skirt and up the sensitive skin of her thigh before roughly lifting her leg and hooking it over his hip. She was exposed and vulnerable and she prayed he’d take full advantage of the situation. When